Hold Tight, Let Go
by Klitch
Summary: He'd let go already, and it was a weakness to grasp for things he couldn't ever touch again (and if his fingers were warm where Yata had touched him, well, then that was only the blood on his hands marking deep).


**Hold Tight, Let Go**

**Notes: **Inspired by that one official art of Yata grabbing Fushimi's coat in the rain. Post-series but pre-movie.

...

It was raining hard and Fushimi shivered in the cold, huddling underneath the nearest awning and staring up at the sky as if he could glare the storm into submission. One arm was wrapped slightly around his torso and his chest hurt with each breath. He was tired and probably well into overtime, and utterly sick of dealing with it.

Ever since the incident at Ashinaka High Scepter 4 had been swamped with work and Fushimi had found himself called in at all hours to deal with some matter or another. He'd thought that this case would be another simple but irritating one, rounding up some intel on a couple of criminal Strains. Munakata had offered him backup, as always, but the rest of the Special Forces squad was caught up in their own mess of overtime and Fushimi had decided that it was simpler to take care of the whole thing himself rather than deal with pulling subordinates off other work and then finding himself stuck with not only having to take care of double the paperwork from this mission but also finish up whatever it was he'd had to pull someone else off of.

The information Fushimi had gotten had been better than expected and on a timetable, so in the end he'd just taken the extra step and gone after them himself. He had the authority, after all, and it wasn't like he was getting off duty any time soon. He'd taken care of the mess properly and made arrangements for the rest of the clean up, and now he was finally on his way back to headquarters to finish up the remaining paperwork if only it would stop raining and his ribs would stop aching so much. He'd taken an unexpectedly hard hit from one of the Strains and it only made Fushimi's mood worse.

(That none of this would be happening if the Red King was still around and the Red Clan with him to handle all the irritating thugs Scepter 4 generally didn't have to bother with was not far from his mind, hovering like bees on the very edge of his thoughts and he swatted it away without a moment's hesitation. Suoh Mikoto was dead, Homra was finished, and none of it had anything to do with him.)

The streets around him were strangely quiet and empty. He had finished up the job earlier in the day than usual – he'd been staying up quite late recently, though even before the whole mess Fushimi's sleep habits had never been what anyone would describe as regular – but between the unnaturally early cold weather and the approaching storm the normally busy streets were nearly devoid of people. Here and there he could see a silhouette of a person running along the sidewalk or ducking into a building, a couple huddled under umbrellas passing underneath a lamp post, that sort of thing, but mostly it was only Fushimi and his aches and the sound of the rain.

And then the sound of something else, wheels on pavement, and Fushimi couldn't stop himself from jerking upward, the old anticipation coursing through him before he even recognized it as if on conditioned reflex and it took a moment for his brain to catch up. Pain shot through his chest and somewhere deeper, the blade lodged further inside than he could reach, and even so Fushimi looked up.

There was a small roiling in the pit of his stomach, a half-thought wish _'maybe it isn't him'_ at the same time the rest of him surged with hope that it was, and then he spotted the figure on the far side of the street.

It was definitely Misaki. He was missing his hat and Fushimi would recognize the red hair anywhere even through the pouring rain and gray light. He was riding his skateboard slowly, head down, not even looking where he was going and Fushimi could tell at a glance that his stance was all wrong. It wasn't the Misaki he remembered, who skated recklessly forward straight into trouble and needed to be constantly saved because he was too much of an idiot to think ahead.

Fushimi's fingers twitched and clenched against the fabric of his coat and he stepped backwards into shadow, skin tingling in a way that was almost painful. There was something wrong about all of it, seeing Yata looking so sluggish and shaky and _weak_, and he wouldn't let himself move.

It was always like that now when he saw Yata, ever since Suoh Mikoto had died. All that pleasure that had always come so readily pumping through his veins, all the desire to fight and taunt and _destroy_ that Fushimi had felt whenever he saw Yata was gone now, grown dull and dead in the water. Looking at Yata now he could only feel muddled and irritated and unsure, as though there were too many feelings colliding together too fast in his head and he couldn't latch on to one.

_This is all your fault._ Fushimi bit his lip, not sure if the thought was directed at Yata or Suoh Mikoto's ghost or even himself, unable to tear his eyes away from Yata's silently weaving figure.

And then there was the sound of a crash and Yata dropped out of view, and Fushimi was halfway across the street before he even realized that he'd moved.

_Stupid._ He slowed his pace slightly, feeling like an idiot standing there in the rain staring at the person who certainly didn't want to even see him at that point. Misaki lay where he'd fallen against a fence, half-curled on himself and nearly limp, as if he hadn't the strength or desire to try and get up. The skateboard had pushed up against the fence and the front wheels were still turning uselessly in midair. Yata wasn't moving, and another spike of pain shot through Fushimi's chest as his legs continued to move forward. _Stupid. Stupid._

It wasn't like he didn't know this. He'd seen Yata's face at the bridge, seen Yata huddled alone in a darkened bar Homra, heard Doumyoji and Akiyama prattling on uselessly about Yata looking weak, about Yata falling from his skateboard (and when was the last time Fushimi had seen him do that, not be knocked down but actually _fall_, with no enemy in sight but the rain). He'd made his decision each of those times to keep walking, keep driving, move forward, move past. But now it was just the two of them and rain and an ache that wouldn't go away, and as he stepped towards Misaki one of Fushimi's hands reached up and scratched roughly at the burn on his chest.

"Hey. You dead?" Fushimi pushed at Yata's shoulder with one foot, face gone cold and fingers numb. He wished the rain would stop already and the clouds cover the sun, and then maybe the lights could all go out.

Yata didn't answer, didn't move, and something deeper than cold spiked through Fushimi's skin.

"Come on, idiot. Get up." Fushimi nudged him again, trying to ignore the slight panicked edge that he could feel creeping into his voice.

That seemed to get some small reaction and Yata curled in upon himself as if wounded, body trembling slightly. The raindrops felt like the stabbing of needles against his skin as Fushimi knelt down beside him.

"Get up already. You're soaking." His words were harsh but all the edges had been sawed off his tone and it irritated Fushimi so much that he almost wanted to stand and leave, but his body hurt too much. One hand grasped the fence and he reached for Yata, shaking his shoulder. "Misaki. Get up."

"Sa..ru...?" Yata turned his head slightly, staring up at him with a blank look that made Fushimi's stomach twist in sudden displeasure.

"You look pathetic, Misaki." Fushimi tried to sound mocking and failed miserably. "Get back on your feet already and get out of here."

Yata just kept staring up at him and Fushimi couldn't handle the brokenness of that gaze. He started to stand and suddenly Misaki reached up, grabbing his coat.

"Saruhiko...don't leave. Don't leave again. You don't get to...you can't just..." The words were half-mumbled and he was breathing hard, and it cut deep at Fushimi's heart. He let the cold of the rain melt into his expression and put a hand on Yata's arm. The skin felt hot.

"Do you even know what you're saying?" Fushimi muttered. "We're enemies, idiot. I'm not here to comfort you."

"Saru..." Yata leaned in close and the heat seemed to be radiating off his skin, and that was when Fushimi caught the fever-brightness of his eyes and realized what was going on.

_You moron, and who says he never gets sick?_ Misaki had always been boasting about that, every time Fushimi caught another cold. _"If you just took care of yourself, Saruhiko, you wouldn't get sick all the time. Look at me, I haven't had a cold in forever!"_

"Who hasn't been taking care of themselves this time, huh?" Fushimi muttered as he pressed a hand against Yata's forehead and felt the expected warmth. "Skating around with a fever like this in the rain, did you want to get sick?"

"Not sick." Yata seemed to have regained some of his bearings and he pushed Fushimi roughly away as he reached for his skateboard, the weakness past and Fushimi thrown away and forgotten again. Fushimi let his hand fall from the fence and knelt on the ground, water seeping into his clothes. Yata was weaving as he stood, leaning heavily on the fence and clutching at his side as if he'd hurt himself when he fell.

"This is what you get," Fushimi said darkly, eyes fixed on Misaki's back, unable to let Yata leave without some form of reply. "That's what happens when you rely on all those precious_ comrades_, Misaki."

"Shut up," Yata growled. His words sounded slightly slurred, as if he wasn't quite awake. "This is—is all your fault anyway. Stupid Saru. You _left._ What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Chase me," Fushimi replied simply, still not rising from the ground. "That's what you should be focusing on. Homra is _gone_, Misaki. Are you going to be mourning and pathetic forever?"

"What the hell would you know?" Yata said, one clenched fist hitting the fence with such force it was sure to bruise, still not turning to meet Fushimi's gaze. Fushimi could only see his back and it was as if he'd always been staring like that, always at Misaki's back, eyes never meeting. They were always at crossed paths, somehow, the both of them. "_You—_you don't hold on to anything. You just walked away and never looked back at us."

"You're the one who stopped looking," Fushimi said. "I just made my choice before anyone else could make it for me. Otherwise I'd be the one looking pathetic in the rain."

"Who are you calling pathetic," Yata said roughly, a hand reaching up to clutch tightly at his wet shirt. "I'm not..I'm still..." Yata's whole body was shaking and everything in Fushimi ached to move towards him even as the weight in his chest kept him rooted to the ground.

"Stupid...Saru..." There was a choke in Yata's voice that Fushimi recognized and tried not to. "Saruhiko...what am I supposed to do now?"

Yata's legs seemed to fold under him and he slid to the ground in a sad little heap.

The air around Fushimi seemed to grow still as if he was stopped in time, the only sounds the steady patter of the rain and his own harsh breathing. There was rustle of cloth and the scrape of shoes on pavement as he forced himself to his feet and stumbled towards Yata.

Yata's eyes were closed, one hand still clenched against the fence. His face was red and his breathing uneven, and Fushimi stared down at him blankly. What he wanted to do warred with what he had chosen not to and finally Fushimi reached down and took him by the wrist.

He couldn't simply leave Misaki here in the rain, sick. It wasn't kindness or in honor of what had once been between them or because of the things he still felt deep down in the hollows of his soul, because none of those answers were acceptable. This was just another aspect of his job, that was all – he'd been told to keep an eye out for Homra, and so he was. That was all. The lie flowed warm in Fushimi's veins and somehow it was easier to breathe now.

He couldn't take Yata back to Scepter 4, that was certain. He knew where Yata's apartment was – he'd seen the files on all the main members of Homra and Fushimi never forgot, the things he saw once – but he didn't have a key to that apartment (not that one, not anymore) and who knew if Yata had one on him. That meant he really had only one choice and Fushimi sighed heavily as he heaved himself to his feet.

It was all such a pain, really, and his chest hurt.

–

The bell rang quietly as the door to Bar Homra opened and Fushimi stepped in, Yata's unconscious form leaning against one shoulder and dragging Yata's skateboard behind him. As soon as they stepped inside Fushimi let the skateboard clatter to the ground and heaved Yata down onto the nearby couch with a grunt of pain. It had been a longer walk to the bar than he'd expected and Yata was heavier than he looked. At least Kusanagi still left the spare key in the same place as always, so he'd been able to get inside.

Fushimi ran a hand through his wet hair, staring down at Yata. They were both thoroughly soaked by now and the rain was only coming down harder outside. There was a distant rumble of thunder in the distance and with a deep sigh Fushimi shrugged off his blue coat and let it fall haphazardly to the floor as he sat down heavily next to the couch. Fushimi pulled his knees up close against his chest and lowered his head, feeling utterly worn out.

Yata stirred momentarily and Fushimi turned his head to stare at him. Yata's breathing was steady but his face was still red and he looked stretched thin, somehow, the same way Fushimi felt.

"You're an idiot," Fushimi said quietly and Yata didn't even stir. Fushimi uncurled slightly, resting his head on the couch, looking Yata full in the face. He reached out with one hand, fingers brushing lightly against Yata's. Fushimi's hands were cold but he didn't dare take Yata's hand in his because he'd already indulged too many weaknesses today and there was no telling how many more he could manage before everything broke apart.

"Mmm." Yata yawned suddenly and Fushimi froze as Yata's eyes opened. Yata blinked sleepily, muttering something under his breath as if not quite sure where he was, and then his eyes met Fushimi's and he smiled.

It was still the same smile Fushimi remembered, the smile that had once been his sun in dark places until he'd decided it was easier to let his eyes get used to the black, and even so it was somehow impossible to look away.

"Saruhiko." Yata's voice sounded drowsy and far away and there was none of the hostility in his tone that Fushimi had tried so hard to cultivate. Yata's hand reached for his, fingers intertwining together, skin on skin, warm on cold, red and blue. "Did I fall asleep in class again?"

Fushimi couldn't answer, couldn't breathe, and the air around him seemed to have frozen solid. He could barely even hear the rain pounding outside. Everything was black and dull, everything except Misaki who was the focus of the whole world.

Misaki, who had always, always been the focus of his world, no matter how much Fushimi had tried to will it otherwise.

"Your hands are cold," Yata continued, blinking drowsily, talking as if inside a dream. His fingers played with Fushimi's and Fushimi felt as if his entire body was on fire. "Hey, want to go to the game center later? I told you, I'm gonna beat your high score."

"As if you could." The reply came too readily, forced from his mouth, an old habit he had thought long broken.

Yata laughed quietly, leaning forward so that his forehead was pressed against Fushimi's. Dimly Fushimi was aware of the heat he felt there but everything was still swirling uncomfortably around him and he began to wonder if maybe he was the one burning with fever instead of Yata.

"Or we could go to my house," Yata said, even as his eyes began to droop shut again. "I know you hate when it's raining, right...so we'll just stay inside today..." His voice trailed off into a quiet muttering and he curled up slightly, pulling Fushimi's hand close as his eyes closed and he fell back into a contented sleep.

_Misaki..._ There was blood pounding in Fushimi's ears and all the sudden he felt caged in, trapped, and the need to escape surged through his body like a shock of lightning. Fushimi bit down hard on his bottom lip and he fell backwards, wrenching his hand away from Yata's as if burned, all but tripping over his own feet as he scrambled into a standing position, eyes still fixed on Yata's sleeping form.

Yata mumbled under his breath again, fingers twitching where Fushimi had removed his hand, but he simply curled into himself once more and fell back into sleep as if nothing at all had happened.

One of Fushimi's hands slammed down on the nearest counter top with a force that made the table shake as the other hand reached up and tore roughly at the scar on his chest.

_I won't do this. I won't do this._ Fushimi was breathing heavily, chest aching with each breath, a drowning man gasping for air. Yata slept on, peaceful and unaware, and Fushimi was filled with the sudden desire to shake him awake, to yell sharp words in his ears, to draw his own blades and _fight_. Anything, anything to keep himself from wanting to see that smile again, not now, not when he'd already accepted the losing of it.

"We are not friends." The words were guttural, barely coherent, but Fushimi had to say it before he sank under the weight of desires he'd already let go of. His fingers dug into the burn scar on his chest and the sharp pain radiated through his body, his legs bending as he fell back against the table, glaring at Yata's sleeping figure.

It was unacceptable, that Misaki should smile at him, that he should want it, not when he wasn't supposed to want things anymore. The world that smile belonged to wasn't his, not now. That world had been destroyed just as surely as Yata's own world had been bled out onto the ground with Suoh Mikoto's blood.

Fushimi had thought it would be satisfying, knowing Suoh Mikoto was dead, but looking at Yata all he could feel was pain.

"Tch." Fushimi forced it down, down, buried it, scratched into the physical wound to let the pain bleed together and straightened his back as he glared coldly at Yata.

This was enough. He'd let go already, and it was a weakness to grasp for things he couldn't ever touch again (and if his fingers were warm where Yata had touched him, well, then that was only the blood on his hands marking deep). Fushimi turned away from Yata and walked towards the door, grabbing his still-damp coat off the floor as he went.

The bell above the door rang and Fushimi froze where he stood as the door opened.

"Yata-san, are you here? I saw the lights were on..." Kamamoto's voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed as he realized who was standing in front of him. His eyes darted to Yata's slumbering form on the couch and he stiffened as if ready for an attack. "Fushimi. What did you do to Yata-san?"

"Nothing. What were planning on doing if I had, loser?" Fushimi said scornfully, coolly sliding a knife into his hands just in case. "He did it to himself. Keep a better eye on your idiots." Kamamoto looked about to reply when a small white hand tugged on the ends of his jacket and a quiet voice cut him off.

"It's all right."

Anna leaned out from behind Kamamoto, a shawl thrown over her head, and Fushimi regarded her evenly. He hadn't even realized she was there.

Kamamoto shot Fushimi another suspicious glare as he moved to kneel beside Yata. Anna glanced at Yata and then walked over to Fushimi. Fushimi deliberately avoided her eyes.

"Saruhiko is hurt," Anna said softly.

"It's just some bruised ribs," Fushimi replied dismissively, even though they both knew that wasn't what she was talking about. Even so, Anna accepted the answer with a nod.

"You brought Misaki to the bar."

"Next time don't let him wander off so easily," Fushimi said, turning to leave. "You're _family,_ aren't you?" There was a deliberate sneer on the word 'family' and Kamamoto glared at him. Anna simply continued to stare at him calmly. Fushimi kept his back to her as he opened the door. "You don't need to tell him I was here."

"Mmm." There was the sound of ruffling skirts as Anna sat down on the floor next to Yata, taking his hand. "Thank you, Saruhiko. Misaki's hand is warm."

Fushimi nodded almost imperceptibly as he pulled his coat closer around him and stepped out into the rain. Warmth lingered on his fingertips (blood marking deep, still, like a brand) and then it froze and was gone, and the door shut behind him.


End file.
